


The Company of Wolves

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Courtly Love, F/M, Middle Ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aerys Targaryen is slain in  battle, his son becomes crown prince of the realm and upon the death of King Jaehaerys, Rhaegar Targaryen assumes kingship under the guidance of his lady mother. But the court is no place for lost babes.</p><p>Tywin Lannister offers to help the Queen rein in the wayward subjects who seek to gain advantages from King Rhaegar's inexperience.  For that he is made Hand of the King. However, with the birth of his daughter he demands a royal marriage as tithe for his services. </p><p>The Queen's refusal sees her parted from her son and sent to the wild North to serve as bride for the widowed Rickard Stark, head of House Stark. And in Winterfell, in the company of wolves, the Queen will use her charm to find a way in which she may avenge herself. Rhaella is willing to do anything to thwart her rival.</p><p>Meanwhile, Rhaegar, the child-king, tries to navigate the treacherous court to the best of his abilities. He feigns the appropriate obedience and awe towards his Lord Hand and plans for a day when he shall be free of Tywin Lannister.</p><p>AU! Rhaella sees the steel underneath the softness of Lyanna Stark and makes a queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 260 - 261 AL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sorry. Not even a smidge.

Princess Rhaella rocked her babe in loving arms. Little Rhaegar had just fallen asleep after heartily wearing his lungs out in a fit of pique undoubtedly brought on by hunger. He’d been doing much of that recently, enough to make his mother weary, for all the Grand Maester insisted it was naught to worry over.

She worried that he might come down with some ailment or another. Especially given the current situation, such an outcome might be disastrous for them all. Rhaella sighed, mayhap for the hundredth time, and, lifting her eyes from Rhaegar, looked to her lady mother.

Queen Shaera sat by the window overlooking the eastern gardens, so called for the myriad of Essosi flowers they housed and for the fact that they would see the sun first every morning. She supposed the sight of it was calming for her mother, but Rhaella could not be so easily appeased.

“But, lady mother, he’s been crying every night. I haven’t been able to sleep one wink.” Her complaint was met with cool indifference. It was not that Shaera Targaryen did not love her daughter; but rather that, such trifling troubles as the ones ked by the young princess were quite ordinary and as queen she had other matters to give her full attention to.

Like the war. The bloody war. It was utterly stupid and Rhaella would have voiced the opinion had anyone asked her, but they did not. Those fools. The loss was their in any case.

“Babes cry,” the Queen replied at a long last. “You were quite vocal as well. If you ask me, daughter, you have been I great luck with this child. His father was twice as fussy and you were much worse to hear the nursemaids say it.”

It was not as if Rhaella had wanted to have a child. Scowling at her mother’s lack of understanding, Rhaella bent her head over her sleeping son and looked at his little face. When they had first put him in her arms, warm and damp, fire raging all around them, Rhaella had been too stunned to weep. She had simply looked at the small creature in wonder. A wrinkly red face, flushed from exertion and howling, was what she had seen. And it had been the most beautiful sight her eyes had ever taken in.

As time went by, the features of her child developed into a familiar image. He looked a bit like Aerys, but more like her. His eyes were the same as hers, dark violet, a tad melancholy. And he was hers. She was the one taking care of him, not her brother. Aerys had been pleased enough to take off to war, chasing glory.

She could not understand why father had allowed it. Certainly, her brother needed experience, but he could die on the battlefield. Why not have him observe the battles from a safe distance? Knowing Aerys, he would be the first to head in the thick of it if he could help it. And the Seven knew he always found a way to get what he wanted. There was no stopping him.

If only there was a way to make him more responsible. Aerys, if left to his own devices, could not care less for his own safety. He thought himself invincible. What if he died? What was to become of her and Rhaegar then? Father was not in the best of health, never had been truly, and mother was likely to expire on the spot if anything ever happened to her husband.

That would leave Rhaella without a defence. She’d not wanted the position forced upon her, but once granted, Rhaella was aware that she could not, in good conscience abandon it on a whim. If ever she did, the country would be left to those greedy lords that sat her father’s council. And they, serpents and wastrels would lay waste the Seven Kingdoms in their hunt for riches.

Furthermore, they would use whoever sat the throne as their shield. After all, what did the commons know of ruling and politics? They’d believe whatever they were told. And that could have dangerous consequences. Rhaella shuddered to think of it.

“Oh, I do wish you would listen to me just once,” she could not help but say in response to Shaera’s perceived indifference. “I wish only for some aid and yet, as ever, you haven’t a moment to spare for me.”

With a sound of frustration the Queen whirled around and gave her daughter a hard stare. “The world does not revolve around you, daughter. There is a war, if it has escaped your notice, and my son is fighting in it.”

“I know well enough,” Rhaella murmured, unintentionally jostling the child in her arms. Thus awoken from his slumber, Rhaegar let out a high-pitched scream of disconcert, intent of letting his mother know that her carelessness had not been appreciated.

Instinctively, Rhaella began rocking him, whispering sweet words to calm him. The constant flow of her voice did, in the end, aid. Before long, the babe was snivelling lightly, violet eyes blinking up at her. “Aye, there we are, my little dragon. No more weeping.” She cooed at him and Rhaegar allowed a gurgle past his lips.

It was at that point that the door opened and father stepped in.

Well used to his visits, Rhaella would not have paid him overly much mind had it not been for the look upon his face. Of a delicate constitution since mayhap the day he was born, Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, had always been pallid and thin. But something was different about his pallor, something had made his thinness more pronounced.

He looked devastated.

That particular bit of knowledge brought along with it clarity. He looked utterly, completely distraught. Rhaella’s stomach squeezed painfully as soon as her father’s mouth opened to form words. Her heart’s beating had grown so loud that she could hear naught beside it, thus she did not understand a single word that was said.

A piercing scream filled her ears after and a thin wail followed.

“What?” she asked over the din. “What did your say, father?”

Jaehaerys turned to look at her, his mien mournful. Rhaella looked towards her mother to see her weeping bitter tears, holding her face in her hands and mumbling about her poor, poor son. Glancing back at the King, Rhaella begged him silently to repeat his statement.

His lips parted and a choked sound came out. “He is slain. Your brother is dead.”

Unexpected, hysterical disbelieving laughter bubbled upon her lips. Rhaella fought it down. “That cannot be. Aerys is not–“ she herself choked on the notion. Tears filled her eyes. “My brother cannot be.” She refused to believe it. “My brother is not dead.”

Tears filled her eyes.

“A raven came with the news. They are sending his body back.” Rhaella would have fainted at those words had she not been conscious of the weight in her arms. Rhaegar had not stopped wailing, as if the wee thing knew the fate of his father.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The King coughed, the rough sound seeming to shake his very frame with its strength. Rhaella looked towards him, momentarily worried. “Father, are you fine? Shall I call for the Grand Maester?”

“’Tis nothing,” Jaehaerys assured his daughter, motioning for the Lord Hand to continue.

Edgar Sloane gave a small nod before resuming his earlier speech. “So you see, Your Majesty, if we were to increase taxes by as much as the grand Maester suggests, the farmers would be at a disadvantage. If the farmers collapse, then the markets fall as well. It would be best to wait for summer if indeed Your Majesty wishes to make such a move.”

The war had taken its toll upon the realm. Many of the coffers had been emptied to ease the progress of the soldiers, to give them food and other necessities. And they had won. Indeed, it could be called a good investment. Yet that did not change the fact that the realm had been left drained. Her father seemed to know it as well. Rhaella could simply not understand why she had allowed Pycelle to promote the harmful idea of increasing taxes.

It was not for her to question the King publicly though. And the Maester had been dutifully refuted by the Lord Hand. As long as a mean proposition was not accepted, then she had no cause for complaint. The Princess glanced towards Ser Hightower who was listening to the fine lords of the King’s council bicker among themselves. It was a wonder any issue ever found a solution in the hands of such people.

Looking away, Rhaella’s eyes were attracted to the dim light coming from the outside world. How marvellous it would be to shake off these burdens and walk in the sun. Alas, it was not to be at the moment.  
Her attention returned to the Master of Coin who was pressing that they borrow money from the Iron Bank. “To aid our own coin, Your Majesty,” the man said. “The trade routes have become less with the war. Until we can cleanse them of such reprobates as haunt them, it would mayhap be best.”

The idea was not without merit. But the Iron Bank would have to be paid back. That meant they could not avail themselves of a truly massive amount of coin. Rhaella watched her father’s face for any sign of agreement. But to her he looked ill and frail. There was no change that could indicate either approval or denial. Just sickness.

For one brief moment she thought of asking him to end the session of the council and leave these matters for another day. Yet, at another time, he might feel worse. Wisely, the daughter kept to herself such notions. Instead she listened for her father’s answer.

“A wise plan,” the King finally allowed with a tired voice. “You shall then negotiate with the Bank.”  
Further concerns were put forth to her father and the King spent very near to the afternoon on these issues before he declared the meeting adjourned.

Free at last, Rhaella followed her father away from the chamber. She knew very well that he would go and lie down for a while, to regain his bearing. She, however, wanted little more than to see her precious son.

Her father, though, had other plans. “Daughter,” he called to her over his shoulder, not slowing down his pace at all, “I must speak to you.”

She would have protested, but the Princess knew that it would do no good. “Aye, father.” Last she’d protested, she had been a girl no older than a score of years and half in love with Ser Bonifer Hasty. A foolish little thing, she’d thought her father would approve of such a knight; if not for the would-be suitor’s own merits, than because it was his sole daughter that asked for the approval. She’d been wrong. No amount of pleading could have changed father’s mind. Not even Aerys had managed to convince Jaehaerys. He had been determined to have his way.

Such had come about the wedding of Rhaella and Aerys Targaryen. An event lacking the bride and groom’s approval or their joy, but one that apparently fulfilled a prophecy. They were the ugliest of things, prophecies.

Chasing away such thoughts, Rhaella followed her father into his chambers. She sat down without waiting for an invitation. Although it had been nearly three years since her father had been crowned king, she was not yet nearly as familiar with this private space as would have been normal. She told herself it was because grandfather had died so suddenly.

Had Summerhal not burst into flames, grandfather might have yet lived. The thought was unsettling. Rhaella folded her hand in her lap and waited for whatever it was that her own father wished to say to her.

“I am hesitant to put this plan to you, child,” he began, sitting down in a chair opposite hers. One of the servants scuttled in, carrying a tray of wine and lemon cakes. The King took no notice. “Yet I must. You have been widowed for longer than a year. Proper mourning has been observed.”

It struck her then; father’s plan became clear in her mind. “From whom has the question come?”

“From no one.” The response did little to calm her. “I have been thinking about this for some time now. “We need coin, gold, as much as can be given. Tytos Lannister is a good man.”

A toothless lion, Rhaella sneered in her mind. “Have you written to him then already, father?”

“I have not. I shall soon enough.” He took one of her hands in his. “Sacrifices have to be made sometimes, child.”

Mournful violet eyes stared into hers. Rhaella held back a shudder.

Why was it that it was only she who had to make sacrifices? “I cannot leave my son,” she whispered, standing to her feet. With a stronger voice, she repeated, “I cannot leave Rhaegar.”

Her father did not try to stop her even as she stomped her way into the hall. The two Kingsguards at the door barely gave her one look as she stormed past them. Rhaella picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could to the nursery, tears brimming in her eyes.

It was cruel of her father to continue using her.

She entered the nursery, knowing very well that her son would not be asleep. A strange occurrence, as Rhaegar grew, he refused, more often than not, to sleep. If put down, he would start wailing his displeasure. Thus, Rhaella had ordered it that the child was to sleep only when he wished it. And he did not wish it very often, much to the horror of his nursemaids.

As soon as he saw her, Rhaegar climbed to his feet and fairly ran towards her. Rhaella knelt to catch him in her arms and pressed a kiss to his upturned forehead. Her son, inordinately pleased by such treatment, began to tell her in his usual manner abut what he had been doing.

It had been quite surprising the mother how fast her Rhaegar was picking up knowledge. And pleasing as well. Proudly lifting him up in her hold, Rhaella stepped over the polished floors. “Do tell me more,” she invite with a smile.

Rhaegar was more than happy to do so. Not for the first time, Rhaella found herself wondering what Aerys would have thought of their son. Would he have been as proud as she was? She could not say. Aerys had always had his own thoughts that he did not share with her. But, as she recalled, he had been fond of Rhaegar when the boy was born. He’d even spent a full day with the child before riding off to war.

The thought that he would be left soon without either of his parents died not sit well with Rhaella. She decided that this time she would not bow down to father’s will. He might be the King, but he was a parent as well. If she managed to appeal to that side of him, he might postpone whatever plans he had for her.

Truth be told, Rhaella held little desire to be wed again. She simply wished to remain by her son’s side, raise him and see him on the throne one day.

Looking down at Rhaegar, a wave of tenderness rushed through her. It felt as if her heart was too big for her chest, that it might, at any point, break through layers of flesh and bone. The nearly painful feeling she equated to being alive and being blessed with a wonderful son.

At length he grew bored with speech and was quite ready to return to whatever toys had been given to him. Rhaella allowed him to go. One of the nursemaids followed close behind, as if to make sure no ill befell him.

Breathing out in relief, Rhaella drew herself to her feet. She felt quite out of sorts with all the thoughts she’d been having. Mayhap it was time that she rested a little.

With that in mind, still labouring under the emotional strain of her father’s announcement, Rhaella retreated to her own bedchamber. The sun had not yet dipped beneath the horizon line and likely would not for some time more. But the Princess cared nothing for that.

Young Joanna Lannister, one of her most trusted ladies-in-waiting helped her disrobe. “You needn’t linger,” Rhaella assured her. “I can well sleep without being attended to. Did you not wish to find a book in the library?”

Joanna smiled at her. “I shan’t be long,” she promised before making her way out the door.

Rhaella simply shook her head and hid her face in her pillow. Should she ask Joanna about Tytos Lannister? Mayhap the girl knew him well, but it was not at all certain. Her uncle he might be, but that did not assure one of any particular closeness. Nay, it was best to bide her time and try to convince her own father of the folly of his plan.

Soon enough though, all such thoughts fled the Princess’ mind. She fell into a deep slumber from which she could not be easily woken up. The passage of time was utterly lost on her. Very likely she might have slept well into the morning if not for a hand shaking her frantically and a voice ordering her to wake up.

The startling manner in which she was brought to consciousness only served to agitate her. Rhaella opened bleary eyes to face a distraught-looking Joanna. “Your Grace, you must awake. His Majesty is ill. Pray, we must hurry.”  
Ill, the thought flashed through her mind, at first not making even a lick of sense to her. Her father had a cough. He was not ill. He had just recovered from a chill. Dazed, Rhaella allowed her helpers to lace her into a dress.

Then, arm in arm with Joanna, followed closely by the Dornish Princess Sarelle, the three of them made their way to the King’s chambers. It was only Rhaella that entered, however.

The sight that greeted her gave little hope. Mother was weeping beside her father’s bed. Her silver hair was tangled and dishevelled, as if she’d been pulling on it. Maester Pycelle was trying to convince her to stand to her feet.

“Nothing more can be done, Your Majesty” he said. He then took notice of the Princess and gave her a small nod.

The bluntness of the pain she felt held her immobile for what felt like an endless second. Somehow, though, Rhaella managed to make her way to one side of the bed, opposite her crying mother. She touched a hand to one of father’s. His skin was cool.

He was well and truly gone. Her fiendish mind whispered that with the King gone she needn’t wed anyone any longer.

Horrified at the thought which had crept upon her unaware, Rhaella lowered her gaze away from her father’s face.

She should be mourning. She would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah well, what can I say, I'm just a barrel of fic ideas.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy the ride.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 267 AL

Lord Lannister was loath to give up his mistress. The Queen Regent exhaled slowly. She ought to send a few pieces of jewellery to the candlemaker’s daughter for the hold she had on the Laughing Lion. Seldom did a man refuse a Queen’s hand for that of a peasant. But Rhaella, for the very first time, minded it not one jot.

The Lord Hand, however, was pacing the room back and forth with such speed that she feared he might make himself ill. For more than half a decade the lion had evaded their scheme, citing different reasons which held him at the Rock. Rhaella had almost sent him a raven with her compliments, alas, she knew that such a move could not bode well. It remained that Tytos Lannister was much too taken with his young mistress to think about the lonely Queen of the Red Keep.

“It is preposterous,” her father’s loyal friend continued. “The things they say about that impudent wench. How can a man allow himself to be led on so?”

That Rhaella could not answer. No man had ever allowed himself to be led by her as far as she knew. Yet other women seemed more than pleased to charm and control. The Queen Regent had simply never met a man to succumb to her charm. Aerys had not cared much for her, she knew, as he always had some woman or another waiting behind closed doors. Lord Tytos was happy enough with his mistress. Even her knight of long ago had found is place in the world.

Well, she did not need any of them in any event. There was a kingdom to be run, matters of the state to be resolved and a son to raise. What mattered if she had a man beside her or not. Rhaegar needed to be her main concern. Rhaella knew that with the proper attention he could become a great king, another Jaehaerys the Conciliator, a man who would lad the realm to its glory.

That was what she saw whenever she gazed at her son. Despite his tender age, King Rhaegar, the First of his Name, exuded the Targaryen aura of greatness. Without intention her mind turned to Aerys once more. Had he not been much like their son? Such promise, wasted on the battlefield. The realm was in good hands though.

“Might be my lord Lannister has the right of it. I would be of little use at the Rock,” Rhaella cut in into the Lord Hand’s tirade. “He has heirs enough and coin and prestige. Were I to birth him a son, say, some might think to push for his ruler over the Westerlands in the future.” And for the Iron Throne. If there was ever a chance that anyone might sit that ugly chair, blood would be shed. Nay, it was best that she kept as she was.

“Your Grace, you are yet young. It cannot be expected that you live the rest of your days alone with nary a comfort.” The words were promptly dismissed by Rhaella. Sloane was not to be deterred. “The realm has incurred massive debt. We need the funds the Rock can provide.”

“Then the Master of Coin had better negotiate with the lions,” the woman spoke. “This is why he has been given his position on my council. If he is unable to, then we need a new Master of Coin.”

“’Tis not that simple, Your Grace,” the man insisted. “The bride price would go a long way to aid us. The Iron Bank shan’t wait much longer.”

It was that bloody war. The following year crops had failed and a famine had swept throughout the land. Though Rhaella had tried to ration grain and corn, the loss had been substantial. Most resources had been used up. Little remained. She did understand the need for coin, but she did not see why they could not make the demand of House Lannister. As a sworn house under the King of the realm, they owed their liege whatever help was needed. She could hardly be expected to seek a new husband every time the realm was in peril.

“’Tis exactly so simple, my lord. Tytos Lannister is ruler of Catserly Rock and he has never shied from lending coin when it was needed.” Although, his son might and if the truth of it was that Tywin Lannister controlled the strings of the purse, Rhaella had better think of a trade.

Clearly her argument did not ring true with the Lord Hand. He was, however, unable to further protest as Rhaella dismissed him with a small sigh. “I shall think further upon this matter, my lord. I’ve no answer now.”

What could she possibly promise to the young lion that might induce him to offer aid. The Seven Kingdoms were already his home, clearly that would not persuade him. What did Tywin Lannister lack that she could offer? He was the oldest son of a powerful in name, if weak in action, lord and stood to inherit a great deal.

That was it. Tywin Lannister was, despite his potential, a mere ser. He hadn’t yet any land of his own and through he ruled within the Rock to the best of his abilities, it was reported that he was forever hampered by his father’s mistress and her wiles. No doubt he would wish to be far away from the vile creature as he possibly could until his father last drew breath.

Indeed, Tywin had been a companion of Aerys’. She could offer him a position at court. Her Master of Coin was useless as it were. She had need of a fair and capable man.

The solution found, Rhaella held back a small smile. First she would need to write to him. Mayhap she ought to write to Joanna. That might sway matters in her favour. It seemed that father and son shared some similarities despite their vast differences.

Then so she would do.

Her business conclude3d, the young Queen drew herself to her feet and left behind the solar in favour of a room she held much closer to her heart. Though as King, Rhaegar ought to have attended court, the poor boy had come down with a head cold that would simply not leave him be. She had been assured multiple times by the maesters that he would be well given a few days of rest, but Rhaella could not bear to be far from him for more than small amounts of time.

She entered in time to see Grand Maester Pycelle had concluded his visit for the day. The man turned to her and bowed respectfully. “His Majesty is much better on this day. The fever has broken.” Such joyful news elicited a full smile from the mother. “The fatigue shall fade as well.”

“That is the very best of news you could have given me, maester.” Rhaella hurried to her son’s bedside and peered down at the boy. Rhaegar was looking at her with a curious look. “Did you hear, son? As soon as you are well, I shall take you wherever you wish to go.”

The incentive obtained a slow nod from the child. Rhaella turned to the maester. “’Tis a pest, this head cold and much too persistent.”

“His Majesty is young, is all. All children are subjected to such hardships.” Pycelle bowed once more. “If I may be allowed to take my leave, Your Grace. There are other matters I must attend to.”

Grateful for her son’s recovery and less interested in the maester, Rhaella bade him to be on his way. She returned her attention to Rhaegar. “Tell me truly, are you feeling better?”

“Much better,” Rhaegar confirmed. “I am bored, lady mother. There is no amusement to be had.” Another one of those hardships children faced, Rhaella thought with a smile. Rhaegar, like most individuals his age, was in possession of a very short attention span, unless storytelling was involved. Which was the reason why she had seen to it that her knowledge of songs and stories was ever increasing.

“I know. ‘Tis a pity to be sure.” Leaving his side for but a moment, Rhaella took the book that had been left upon a stool and returned to her place. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Let us see which story you have not yet heard.”

“Can you not tell me about the dragons, lady mother?” the child demanded, rising himself against the pillows. “I want to hear about the dragons.”

Dragons had a special place in her son’s heart. Rhaella pursed her lips. “I have told you the stories a thousand times over. You would like something else better, I am certain.” Rhaegar looked unconvinced. Rhaella sighed. “Very well, then. Dragons it is. Which one shall I tell you of?”

“Balerion the Black Dread,” came the swift reply. As if anyone would ever doubt what the boy’s passion was.

Had her grandfather’s attempt been met with success, Rhaegar would have likely had a dragon of his own. The very thought unsettled Rhaella. She could just imagine the lizard-like creature crawling about the room with its shiny scales and beady eyes. A shudder travelled down her spine. As magnificent as dragons were, they were ten times as dangerous to everyone, even their masters.

What need had they of dragons in any event? The realm was at peace. A dragon would need to be fed much more than a small army and it hunted what it was not supposed to, livestock and inhabitants of the realm. The chronicles numbered mayhap dozens upon dozens of such victims.

Although, to be entirely fair, a dragon egg, if sold could ease the debt incurred. A live dragon would be bund to bring in enough coin to erase the debt. Rhaella shook her head. What was she thinking? There were no dragons, except upon banners. More the pity.

Unable to delay any longer, Rhaella delved into her story of Aegon and Balerion and was pleased to see that her son, despite knowing the tale, listened with rapt attention. If one could get him to listen just so to the matters of the realm, she would feel truly blessed. Alas, he was still just a child. As he grew, however, she knew that he would not disappoint her. It was simply not within him to.

She had just reached the chapter of Harrenhal within the conquest tale when a knock on the door interrupted. Cut off midspeech, Rhaella invited however stood on the other side to come in. The door opened to admit Ser Barristan Selmy.

“Apologies, Your Majesty, I was bade to inform Her Grace that her mother has returned.” And with her so had chaos, Rhaella presumed. She thanked Ser Selmy for his service and dismissed him. “It seems you shall have to wait for the rest o the conquest. I must away.”

Much displeased, her son was a long sigh, but did not try to stop her. “You shall be back, lady mother, shan’t you?”

“As soon as I can,” Rhaella promised. It would likely not be any time before nightfall, as her own mother tended to require a lot of attention.

Since father’s death, her lady mother had not been the same. Rhaella had always known that a great love tied her parents. It had been the reason for which she’d been as distraught to not be given a chance of her own to love. Alas, she now found that it was mayhap for the best that they’d not allowed it.

Mother had been distraught at father’s death. But it was more than that. She had lost her grip on sanity, as far as Rhaella was concerned. Father had been a good man, despite his faults. But mother had always been the paranoid one, the one who saw shadows where none where to be found and the one who thought to look for threats in the strangest of places. Father’s death had only exacerbated those faults.

In fact, more no less than a year, her mother had been certain that the King dies as the result of a plot and not because of a banal cold. It was as if she could not accept the simple truth. Good gods, who would want to assassinate father? He had brought peace to the realm. The very notion was laughable. But not in her lady mother’s mind. With a shake of her head, Rhaella tried to dismiss those thoughts. They would not serve her well.

Walking through the hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast, the young woman could already see servants running left and right to prepare whatever it was her mother asked for. Chaos indeed. The daughter entered the large chamber the former queen had been assigned. Her lady mother sat in one of the chairs, her cloak still fastened about her shoulders.

“I was wondering when you would arrive,” Shaera said, without looking at Rhaella. “You have kept me waiting. It seems you manner are lacking, daughter.”

“Apologies, lady mother. I was tending to my son.” Though she had given a valid reason for her tardiness, Shaera did not seem impressed. “Rhaegar was ill. I could not leave her side.” There were times when Rhaella wondered if the woman had lost her heart along with her mind. The answers seemed obvious, to her eyes at least. “How were your travels?” Rhaella questioned, striving to remain pleasant.

“Cut short by the strangest rumour. I have heard it said that Tytos Lannister elected to remain at Casterly Rock even when the King has issued him an invitation at court. Furthermore, he seems intended on remaining with his common born mistress.” A sour look spread upon the older woman’s face. “I have also heard you have yet to do a thing about it.”

“You are very well informed, my lady,” Rhaella answered after a long moment of awkward silence. “I see no reason to force the issue more than it has already been forced. Lord Lannister does not wish for the match. Nor I. We are neither of us children to be pushed into matrimony at the whims of others.”

“Do you have feathers in that head of yours?” her mother demanded acidly, jumping from her seat. “Neither of you wishes for the match? Good gods, let us all do exactly as we wish them and have the realm crumble around our ears. This is not about what you wish; this pertains to your duty.”

“I have done my duty,” the Queen Regent contradicted. “My duty was to my family and the realm. I have birthed an heir. I am the King’s mother.” Was it to be a never ending cycle of sacrifices? “Lord Tytos must have similar thought about his own duty.”

“Tytos Lannister is a weak fool,” Shaera Targayen interrupted. “The real does sometime need such individuals of his special manner. As for duty, as long as you draw breath, you duty has not ended. The Seven Kingdoms are needy and you can satisfy their need.”

At the cost of her own sanity, mayhap. Rhaella shook her head. “There are other ways. Allow me to solve these troubles in my own fashion.” She of all the people wished to do so more than anything. Her son would one day rule the Seven Kingdoms, thus she had as much interest s anyone else if not more.

“You have been allowed your ways for far too long. I shall write to Lord Lannister and if he does not arrive to King’s landing in good time, he is to be declared a traitor of the realm.” Well, her mother had gone and truly lost whatever was left of her mind.

“He cannot be declared a traitor for not wishing to wed me,” Rhaella countered.

“He can be declared a traitor for refusing to submit to his King’s will,” Shaera declared, no inflection whatsoever in her voice.

The angrier Rhaella grew, the calmer her mother became. Breathing in deeply and exhaling, the young mother tried to think of an argument which might put an end to the dispute. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind.

She could protest all she liked; if the Small Council pressured for such a letter to be sent, then it would.

“There is one small issue mother. That of consent. I shall simply refuse to wed Lord Lannister,” she apt out in the end. “There is no law that can obligate me to act against my conscience.”

Laughter escaped past her mother’s lips. “Foolish child. I see you’ve grown only in years. Have you learned nothing at all? The King’s decree cannot be ignored. Not unless one wishes to meet their end upon the chopping block.”

And they could very well convince her son to sign such a decree. Rhaella gulped softly. Nay indeed, she could not ignore the King’s word, no matter that the King was her son and still very much a child. It seemed that she was sinking into a bottomless pond with no shoreline in sight.

It occurred to her that she had need of a great number of allies to put an end to the scheme. Alas, Rhaella had cultivated very few such connections, concentrating more on raising her son. Yet even so, surely some could be found that would oppose the match.

Refusing to give up or allow anyone to dictate to her further, Rhaella clasped her hands together behind her hack and raised her chin definitely. “We shall see what the King decides then.” It was only a matter of convincing her son not to give in.

If he had even a fraction of his father’s stubbornness, her mission should not prove impossible.

A thin, cutting smile spread upon her mother’s face. “Let us see then, daughter, how much your skill has improved.”

Rhaella huffed. “I have other matters to attend to now, lady mother. If you will excuse me.” She waited no further to leave the presence of Shaera Targaryen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone missed the beginning note, the year is 267 AL, therefore there has been a six years time-skip
> 
> Questions, comments, and the like are always appreciated. 
> 
> Till next time then. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 270 AL

The Master of Coin and her old Lord Hand were at odds. Edgar Sloane’s eyes narrowed, cool reprove burning in those depths. “You might well be a great lord of the realm,” the elder spoke in a thin, weary voice, his chest heaving visibly, “but you are not my equal in years or rank, and I would thank you not to act as if you were.”

Far from being cowed by the words, Lord Lannister proceeded to stare fixedly at his opponent, as if willing him to break. Tywin Lannister was not a man to be trifled with. Far and wide was it known that the Lion of Lannister had sharp claws and an ever sharper mind.

Rhaella looked between the two men, not willing to intervene. She knew very well that Edgar Sloane had been against her naming of Tywin in the Small Council and she was also aware that the Lion desired to accede even higher. But with her Lord Hand there, he had little chance. Yet more than two years of being at loggerheads had shaped such an enmity between them that at times she did fear.

Scarcely had she written to Joanna Lannister those few years past that news arrived of Tytos Lannister’s death. The Stranger had foiled her plans of matrimony and pressed the power of the Westerlands into the eager hands of Tywin, Tytos’ eldest. Wasting little time, Rhaella had addressed her proposition to the man and after an adequate period of mourning a new master of coin sat the King’s council.

Joanna had returned to King’s Landing as well along with her two children. Twins they were and impossible to tell apart if not clothed in befitting attires. The eldest was a daughter whom they named Cersei. The younger was Tywin’s pride, an heir, called Jaime. Had they not been quite too young to keep company with her son, Rhaella thought a repeat of past friendships would have been inevitable. As it were, the young King paid more attention to his training than he did to other children.

A strange thing, to be sure, but the Queen Regent could not complain. The more he grew, the more studious her son’s nature became. Rhaegar had always loved stories. So much so that as soon as he’d learned his letters he was seldom without a book at hand. Once the Valyrian tongue was conquered there was no knowledge that he hadn’t inkling of. It made her proud and worried by turns. His nature was so very close to that of another bookish king.

What saved Rhaegar, though, was his concern with the world outside the keep’s walls. He had all the curiosities of a child and the learning of a king. They mingled together to shape the young boy that sat the throne.

Of course, there was much left to learn and time to do so as well. In the meantime, Rhaella signalled to the Master of Whisperers to put an end to the dispute taking place before her eyes.

“My lords, I pray you, there is no need for violent language.” Such was the war of stares brought to an end. “We ought to focus on the present troubles.”

In truth, Tywin had done her a great service by accepting the role she had offered him. Much like he’d done for Casterly Rock, he had a care to bring coin into the royal coffers and a part of the debt to the Iron Bank. But a point had been reached where he was pushing too hard.

“Your Grace,” Tywin addressed the King directly, “it is important that we pay all debt to the Iron Bank now. Delay shall only give an opportunity for the debt to deepen” One never knew when coin was needed after all.

“Your Grace, the realm is at peace, the kingdoms flourish,” the Hand of the King argued, “we shan’t have need of the Iron Bank for a long time yet. What good would it do to part the hard working men of their coin when there is little need at present?”

“And what shall we do when the present is past and we are deep in debt?” the Lion questioned, his mien tight. “Where shall we raise coin from then?”

They would not have any sort of coin, Rhaella considered, in such a scenario. It was simply that famine was not yet a memory and though the situation was on the mend, the scars had not yet passed. On the one hand, Tywin Lannister had the right of it.

On the other hand, the smallfolk would not appreciate a new levy anymore than they would a draught or the coming of winter. “Mayhap we ought to wait awhile until the kingdoms are steadier on their feet,” the Queen Regent suggested. “We may then increase the taxes if need be and pay the Iron Bank its due.”

It was middle ground, if anything, and that ought to put an end to the matter. At least for a few more moon turns.

“Your Grace,” the Lord Hand moved to another issue, “there seems to be general discontent regarding the new accord signed with House Whent. Lord Whent has been accused of taking for his own a bordering bannerman’s due.”

“Then Lord Whent should give what he has taken back and pay the man for the trouble caused. If indeed the bannerman speaks the truth.” It was not the first time Rhaegar made decisions, for indeed he has begun playing a rather more active role in the past year. It seemed his schooling in the art of ruling was paying off. “I should like the matter assessed thoroughly. Master of Laws, see it done.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” the Master of Laws answered quickly, although one had to wonder at the amount of attention he’d been paying when confronted with a warm, wet gaze that lent itself more to dreaming. “It shall be done.”

The council turned its attention upon another matter after and discussion resumed. Long into the day does their talk last, until Rhaella was forced into wishing their lips sealed shut with thread, until she could hardly sit still in her place, which shamed the Queen, for her son still paid mind to the debate of those lofty lords. Alas, she could not endure more.

Drawing to her feet, she interrupted the Master of Laws mid-argument and dismissed the council. “We shall discuss these matters further at a later time,” she promised after a moment of consideration in the face of their protests. “It is more than enough for this day.”

Men might be willing to live on politics alone, but she was not at all tempted to do so. Aerys had been the one with a head for schemes, not her. And in all fairness, it had been one of his greatest pleasures to play the game of thrones, as it was called. Rhaella had been vastly more concerned with matters closer to heart and body. Queen Regent though she might be, to her own mind shed was a mother first and foremost.

Of course, such comfort could only envelop her as the result of having her own mother sent to Dragonstone. The failed attempt to wed her to the late Lord Lannister seemed reason enough to Rhaella to claim her lady mother was troubled of late, having never quite recovered from her husband’s loss and that of her son, and could not handle the strain a life at court put upon her. No doubt it had been well understood among her noble courtiers that the woman was being sent away for stepping upon the Queen Regent’s toes. The consequence of her action could only be of a positive nature. It would be known that she’d not tolerate anyone’s intervention in her private life and decisions, be they the mother that birthed her or the Father himself.

Having reached her chambers at a long last, Rhaella saw herself within just as the first of her ladies-in-waiting rose from her seat, followed by the other two. Joanna Lannister was the fourth person in the chamber and she too rose to greet Rhaella.

For a brief instance, the Queen Regent gazed at the golden lioness a twinge of envy sparking to live within her breast. Joanna had never been less than happy for as long as Rhaella had known her. It seemed unfair to her that such a creature know not an ounce of struggle as the rest of the world did. However, she schooled her features into a faintly surprised mien and walked towards her. “Lady Joanna, what brings you to my private chambers?”

Though the question had been lightly put, Rhaella could tell by the quiver of Joanna’s lips that the lioness had understood well enough what had remained silent.

“I thought to keep Your Grace company,” the Lady of Casterly Rock replied, adopting a soft smile. “At least for this little while before I am sent back to the Rock, if it please Your Grace.”

“It pleases me well to have my friend with me,” Rhaella answered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was the middle of the night when she awoke to a soft scraping noise coming from without. Rhaella sighed softly, thinking that it had been a strange dream to wake her and drew the covers over herself, as they had slipped down to her middle. As silence, the sort that is both menacing and curious to the point where it is no longer a silence but an unnerving high-pitched sound exploding in one’s ears, fell over everything and all, the woman chided herself for foolishness.

“What shall it be after, Rhaella? Snarks and grumkins come to steal you away?” she laughed at herself, turning upon her other side, facing away from the door. She had grown used to spending the nights in a cocoon of cold sheets. An empty bed rarely held warmth. But she did not miss the heat enough to complain at its absence.

Another sigh passed her lips as she flattened her palm over the goose-feather filled pillow. Sleep would come, she told herself, closing both eyes and drawing in a long breath as if her lungs hungered for air. It was only a matter of time before she would be led away into a world of dreams and visions where none of the burdens of the day followed her.

All too soon, she was drowsy, faintly warm and careering towards a wide chasm of nothingness, ready to be engulfed by the darkness that lay ahead. It was the very best feelings, to fly as she did though a vast space and fear no one and nothing.

Just as she was about to give herself over to the stillness completely that scraping noise came again. Startled, the Queen Regent forced herself into a sitting position despite the protest of her muscles. A gust of wind tumbled in through one of the high windows, cutting into her skin through the thin chemise she wore. But Rhaella did not mind that. Instead she listened for that weird noise coming from just without her chamber door.

There were no pets she kept that would act thus, nor did any of her ladies keep such creatures. Why then did the scarping not stop? What manner of creature could lay in waiting without her chamber door? Atremble, her whole body grew rigid with fear, her mind warning her against leaving the safety of her bed.

And then, unsummoned, a memory came to her. The image of her friend was brought forth and the words of Joanna Lannister rang in her ears. “Why not make a match between our children? House Targaryen and House Lannister; would it not be magnificent?”

It would not. That had been Rhaella’s answer, though in much sweeter terms, yet no less certain. She had allowed the possibility of such a match only if there was no other choice. She had called the Lion of Lannister to King’s Landing and she had granted him a lofty position. It was beyond rude of those wicked creatures to attempt to wrestle power from her. She would not have it.

A third time did the scraping ring out through the silence and it was one time too many. Rhaella could not endure not knowing. Gathering her bravery, she threw away the covers tangled all about her and climbed down from the mattress onto the carpeted ground, forgoing slippers as she made her way to the door. Without was the chamber where her ladies-in-waiting slept. She would berate them for not having enough care and letting loose some sort of pest to bother her sleep. That was what Rhaella decided.

Yet just as her hand reached the door, ready to push it open, the noise ceased. Unintentionally jumping back, the Queen Regent let out a soft curse. What was she doing? Why would her ladies tale in any sort of creature? Unable to step down, however, Rhaella pressed her weight against the slab of wood, pushing it out of the way.

Thick darkness greeted her sight. Not even a single candle burned within the room and her three women slept one beside the other in a large bed, huddled together for warmth. She was safe. She was safe despite Joanna Lannister’s look of surprise and incredulity when her offer had been refused.

Relief flooded her, leaving her an uncertain mass of nerves within the doorframe. What was she to do? Surely it had been just her mind playing tricks on her, for worry that the Lannisters might attempt something. Even so, they would not dare barge into her bedchamber. Not even they.

Disquiet flared to life within her once more as she contemplated the matter further. Joanna had not been pleased by her reply. Tywin Lannister had said not a thing, yet she could see in his eyes whenever they landed upon her that something burned, screamed for retribution. As if she were the daring and presumptuous one and not they. Struggling, with herself, the woman kept her stance throughout the internal debate. She was frozen to her spot, in a manner more binding that any chains and she liked it not one whit. She had done right, that much she knew.

Rhaegar was yet young and had no need for a bride. Cersei Lannister would have to try her luck elsewhere, for Rhaella had little fondness for lions and would sooner take herself off to Essos than allow such a match to come trough. Nay, she had someone else in mind. A better choice. When the time for it would come.

At a long last, Rhaella managed to pull herself away and shut the door. Behind her the soft rustling of billowing curtains cut through the heaviness. Turning around with the speed of an arrow, she marched to the window and blocked out any source of light or noise. It was quite enough, she needed sleep.

What the morrow would bring no one knew. Yet she would face it with hope and strength. Upon that thought, the Queen Regent retreated to her bed and slipped beneath the covers, placing her head firmly upon the pillow and ordering herself to slumber.

She might have succeeded had it not been at that moment that loud noises burst to life from without and the door of her bedchamber hit the wall. This was far from the dream the scraping had been. Within moments someone was dragging her from beneath the covers. She could hear the voices of her ladies-in-waiting. They panicked and cried in unison as if that might aid her. Rhaella herself had cried out at the rough handling and was much surprised to see before her three of the council members.

“What is the meaning of this, my lords?” she demanded unflinchingly although within she felt ready to cast her accounts. “What manner of seeking audience is this?”

Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat. Rhaella watched as he drew from within his sleeve a rolled parchment. “Your Grace,” he said, “think not that we mean you ill. We are doing this for the greater good.”

“The thief does not admit to nefarious plans before his crime, the murdered neither. Would you have me believe that traitors are any different?” she spat at his feet, trying to pry herself loose of the Maester of Whisperer’s hold. To no avail though. “What want you?”

“Merely that Your Grace give up regency in favour of your lady mother and accept to pledge your troth to Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North.” The words were spoken by the Master of Laws, yet Rhaella scented the Lion as soon as the man opened his mouth. This was Tywin Lannister’s doing, she was certain.

“You are all man if you think the King would so easily allow–“ She was cut off by her captor forcing her into a chair, pressing down upon her shoulder rather brutally.

“The King is young,” the Master of Whisperers reminded her. “Young and without many friends at court. He’s been kept within holding distance of your skirts for too long, Your Grace.” The threat rang out in her ears as the man went on. “A King needs allies to rule. Surely you would wish for a great number of allies for your son.”

Seared, the woman let out as muffled sob. “I am his mother. Why would you wish to separate parent from child?” They had no pity to spare her though.

The Master of Laws produced an inkwell and a quill for her use as the Grand Maester placed the parchment in her lap. “Your Grace, sign the document and the King shall have a prosperous reign.” Her refusal to sign could mean the death of Rhaegar.

Hand trembling, Rhaella took the quill from the lord holding it and dipped its end in ink. “I do this for my son,” she said, “but there will come a day when you shall regret this folly.” She nit her lower lip when witnessing the signature of the King. Her poor son, what had they told him to force his hand.

“Sign, Your Grace,” Pycelle urged her. “Sign and let us be done with this.”

Rhaella signed, betrothing herself to a Northerner lord she knew nothing of beside a name and title; with the same stroke she left her son at the mercy of his court. It was the end of Queen Regent Rhaella Targaryen.

She had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. As always tell me what you though. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 270 AL

 

 

 

 

The Lives of Four Kings lied on the mahogany table with stubby legs and heavily ornate. It was opened, parted carefully in two halves. The thick pages presented some remnants of bristle that had yet to be smoothed. At the highest point of the page, with large, bold, straight lettering, stood written the words of Maester Kaeth. Below, slimmer, rounder letters detailed the main topic of the chapter ahead. On the outer side of the page a large initial had been painted in bright colours, vivid sapphire and burning red outlined by a thin golden thread. Upon the rest of the page an elegant script expounded upon the virtues of the good rule, the well-done thing and well-planned action.

Rhaegar eyes the page distrustfully, frustration coursing within his veins. What good did it do to him that he was mindful of the words of the Seven, kept the good faith and strove to see hid kingdom flourish? He could pay tithe to a thousand different septs and beg nameless gods, and he would be just as well served as he had been by his own deities.

His mother would still be sent to the frozen North. The child could not quite come to terms with his own part in having exiled the only one person who had loved him to the end of he ream. It might as well have been Essos that she were sent to for all it mattered. Rhaegar knew that once she was gone, he would be all alone.

Mother would no longer be there. Just like his lord father. It would be as if she too had gone into the world of shades never to return. And all because he was a coward who could not bring himself to face the threat of his own lords. Men they might be and he just a child, but he should have at least fought them.

Yet he had not. Rhaegar had simply looked from one man to the other when they spoke to him about the fate of his mother should he refuse them, and in the end, with trembling fingers had picked up a quill and his sigil. He has signed.

And not a moment since had he found any sort of peace, The histories would write of him in cruel, harsh words. Right they would be to. A King ought to be the bravest, the wisest and the best of men. But not he. He was the coward who had accepted to have his mother borne away.

Alack, Something had been taken as a lesson by the young ruler. The child had understood that in such a world as the one he inhabited, the only person he could rely on was himself. Other would keep with him only as long as they were capable or satisfied in their vanity. When he would or could no longer please them, they would leave. Or a King could not exist without true allies. As such, the one who bore the crown had best open his eyes wide and amass as much support as possible.

Slow and lethargic, the King drew his fingers over the written page of Maester Kaeth’s work. Within the Seven Kingdoms there were only four such books. One of them resided in Oldtwon, two in King’s Landing and another at Winterfell. There was something like comfort in the knowledge that at least words would bind him and his mother. At the very least the son could look upon the pages of the Grand Maester’s work and wonder, think to himself that his lady mother might be reading the very same pages as him many leagues away.

In that moment, the boy felt a flare of warmth spread through his body, all the way to his extremities. The sickening guilt had not gone away entirely. But at the very least he could breathe. At a long last. Rhaegar pulled his hand back and remained staring at the letters, his mind wandering towards other planes. A confused mass of thoughts ravaged through his head, bouncing from one corner to another, soft whispers and unfinished pleas mingled with waves of fury and despair. They tangled together in a wave so complicated the King did not even attempt to make sense of it. He merely stepped away from the table and allowed himself to land in a chair.

Naked skin touched polished wood, the smooth surface cool beneath his heated flesh. Like a mute, he lingered in absolute silence. Rhaegar would have spoken but he feared. What if someone without heard him? What if, what if, what if. He swallowed with difficulty as his mind stormed with unpalatable thoughts. Woe to him who knew himself to be in danger yet was powerless to help even himself. The King remained seated, eyes upon the door.

He expected that soon enough they would come for him. Not to shorten his height. Nay, for they had need of him well and alive if they were to rule in his stead. They would simply drag him from the comfort of his chamber so as to have him present for his mother’s departure. Were the masses to catch wind of what had gone on within the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, there was the slight change that opprobrious words would be thrown towards those responsible.

Not that it would matter. Those with power seldom tripped over words. Yet Rhaegar would at least feel vindicated. Shaking the thought away the young King watched the unmoving door, the atmosphere growing more and more suffocating with each passing moment. The wait wrung his nerves. It was the very worst of it. At least in action one could and did at the very lest go through motions. As it was, however, he could but sit where he was and wait in silence, as if in a tomb.

A very fitting thought given the current situation he found himself in. Rhaegar grimaced. If only the blasted door would move one inch; even that would please him well enough.           

As if in direct response to his thoughts, a low whine filled the chamber as the door swung on its hinges, giving way to pressure coming from without. The King startled in his chair. With only grim determination as his companion, the child staggered to his feet, eyeing the entrance with distrust and slight disgust when he saw who it was that entered his domain.

None other than the Grand Maester himself stepped over the threshold, an exaggerated paternal gesture following him within. “Your Grace,” he said in a kindly voice, laced with concern, even as his beady eyes strained upon him, “it is time.” He did not offer to guide Rhaegar, thankfully.

Without, Ser Harlan bowed to the ruler of the land, his lined face a perfect mask of serenity. On the other side, Ser Barristan, whom they still called the Bold, did the very same. It was without reason that the young King felt anger boil within him. Anger at these great men who should have protected him. Anger at their daring to face him even in such circumstances. He could but walk past them and away, as no words of his could possibly help matters.

To his mind it was rather clear what must be done. And that was exactly what he planned for. In the meantime it was best to keep his head lowered and not make waves. There would come a day when he would have retribution.

In the courtyard, his mother’s party had made ready, a suite of armed men, joined by three ladies-in-waiting and a few other courtiers, one of whom, the Master of Laws, was to see the union between the Queen Mother and her betrothed sealed. Ser Gawyne would ride with them as well, as the principle protector of Rhaella Targaryen throughout her journey to the North, fraught as it was with perils.

Striving to keep a dignified mien, the young King walked to where his mother had been brought by Shaera. His grandmother was telling something to the Queen Mother, her tall frame imposing when opposed to her daughter’s hunched form.

“Your Grace,” his grandmother greeted, a smile painted upon her lips. Light violet eyes followed his progress. “You are come just in time. Your lady mother was wondering at your absence.”

His throat worked almost convulsively, but somehow the boy managed to speak. “A moment with my lady mother,” he demanded in a flat voice.

They must have thought it merciful of themselves to allow it. Rhaegar was only glad that they had. He wasted no time in walking into the Queen Mother’s embrace. “I will find a way to return you to King’s Landing, mother,” he promised softly to the woman who had begun weeping even as she nodded her head.

“Of course, my brave son. I know you shall.” Her words washed over him, yet the King knew not whether she truly meant them or was humouring her only child.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaella shivered softly, her fur lined cloak less than enough for the cool climates of the North. Since they had passed the Neck, her very bones had begun to ache. Not only a vague feeling of discontent rattled her. Within her wheelhouse, the once powerful woman lay upon embroidered pillows and said little more than what was strictly necessary.

Her thoughts were not upon the journey, nor even upon the cold. Like any mother she wondered about her son. H Rhaegar Hr set boy who had promised h would find a way to bring her back to King’s Landing. She hoped the thought would die within him and wither away. After all, a life of exile in the frigid wilderness of the tree worshipers was not the worst fate.

She would still be the lady wife of one of the realm’s pillars and with enough fortune could mayhap convince him to allow her visits to her son. Long enough had she been in the company of women, and knew, from words and witnessing, that a man could be swayed. With that in mind, she could only hope that her own child would wait, would bide his time and not cause any sort of trouble. It was crucial that they gain some powerful allies before attempting to counter Tywin Lannister and his plans.

“Your Grace,” one of her ladies called to her softly, holding up a bowl of dried fruit, “have some. You are too pale of skin.”

“I thank you, but my stomach protests even the smallest of morsels.” She smiled nonetheless, letting Ynnis Chelsted know that she appreciated the thought.

She had not lied though. Her stomach rumbled unpleasantly. It seemed to her that the very motions of the wheelhouse had brought on the plague of discomfort. Still, Rhaella had to endure. Winterfell would be looming in the horizon soon enough and once they reached the castle of winter, her fate would be sealed. There would be no turning back from that point onwards.

Arrana Celtigar offered her a wineskin filled with spiced wine. Rhaella swallowed a couple of mouthfuls. “I daresay we shall need something stronger,” she noted, causing the third of her women to burst out into shrill giggles. Orsyla Butterwell had never been known for her subtlety though.

“Mayhap I could charm something off of one of your soldiers, Your Grace,” the same Orsyla offered, a less than innocent smile appearing upon her face. She was by far the most spirited of her ladies and the boldest.

“Nay, this best you do not,” Rhaella decided matters after a moment of contemplation, finding to her horror that she should have liked to give in. But the very last thing she needed was for one of her ladies to find herself carrying a bastard.

On their merry road they went, on and on toward the new home that awaited the mother of the king. And, as every journey must find its end, so did Rhaella Targaryen’s, within the grand yard of Winterfell.

As expected, Lord Stark awaited the arrival of the Queen and her party, having been aware of their approach long before. Never in her life had Rhaella seen the man. In all her years at court, she had not heard him much spoken of, nor had it ever occurred to her to ask. House Stark was, for the most part, reclusive. Few individuals from the clan of the wolves had ever concerned themselves with matters without the borders of their frozen kingdom. In turn, the rest of the realm had comfortably ignored their existence. It had seemed only fair.

But now, as she faced the head of the house, being helped down from her wheelhouse by the odious Symond Staunton, she wished she had. Knowing next to nothing about the man she was to wed chaffed. At last Aerys had not been a stranger. Alack, she had no escape.

Her eyes drifted to the man in question. Somewhat broad shouldered and showing signs of stoutness, Rickard Stark presented the image of a man of middling height with piercing silver eyes and one grim line for a mouth. Dark hair framed his face, although Rhaella saw it was far from the sable of the Baratheons. A matching beard adorned his chin, travelling below towards his neck.

“Your Grace, I welcome you to Winterfell,” the man said, his hand rising in an elegant gesture of presentation.

“I am pleased to be here,” Rhaella responded, allowing him to take her hand and bend over it. The brush of his palm against hers left her flesh tingling. His skin had been warm.

The rest of the party was properly introduced and customs were observed, the guests of import making themselves known to their host. Lord Stark was patient throughout the process, but Rhaella thought she detected about him an air of ironic tolerance. It was in the way he looked at them all. As if he knew something they did not.

“If it please Your Grace, we should move within the great hall,” the Northerner lord urged as soon as the last man that needed to be heard had spoken. Rhaella nodded daintily, slipping her hand upon his arm. And shoulder to shoulder the two of them led the procession.

As close as she was to the man, Rhaella found herself reticent to speak. Growing up as she had, it went without question that she had been taught conversation and good manners. But for some reason, her lips refused to work. Instead, she found herself looking around as they entered within.

To her great surprise, the walls of Winterfell exuded warmth. Her lips opened in surprise and the expression must have spread to her entire visage for Lord Stark looked upon her with slight amusement. “When Brandon the Builder put the foundation of this keep, he made sure that the harsh winter would not be overlooked. Warm water flows beneath the stone.” The explanation made her yet more curious. She stopped to gaze at the wall and Rickard merely allowed her to touch the wall and convince herself.

“It is truly ingenious,” Rhaella allowed.

They continued into the main hall, where a grand feast awaited them. Rhaella was, of course, given a seat next to the lord of the house. On one side sat Rickard Stark’s men, on the other hers. It was a strange sight, reminiscent of days of yore in her father’s home. Unexpectedly, her thoughts turned to a young knight who had once crowned her with a golden chain of flowers. Just as soon as the memory had passed, she returned to the present.

“My lord, if you do not mind my asking,” the woman began, leaning slightly towards him, “I have heard that you are a father, yet I see no children here.” She gestured to the gathering of grown men and women.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Rickard confirmed. “My two eldest sons are away squiring. My youngest, a daughter and a son, occupy the nursery.” The explanation was met with a nod. It was nothing out of the ordinary and considering that winter raged without, one should think Lord Stark wise for not exposing his children to the dangers of a chill.

“Forgive my lack of knowledge, Lord Stark, but should they not be present at the exchanging of the vows?”

He slanted a dry look her way, as if unsure of her meaning. Rhaella merely shrugged. “I do believe you have the right if it, Your Grace. But I am one step ahead. Both Brandon and Eddard have been sent for. Our vows shall be exchanged in their presence.”

“That is well.” The Queen Mother looked at her plate of food. “I wish mine own son could have been present.”

“A king’s duty is to his people,” Lord Stark stated. It was a sort of comfort he offered, she recognised. A cold comfort. Nonetheless, Rhaella managed to nod in agreement. “Mayhap after Your Grace has had her meal we could see the children.”

“I believe I should like that.” In fact, Rhaella would take the opportunity to have the gifts she had brought for her new husband’s children delivered and out of her way. And why should she not enjoy seeing those babes?

If she thought on it, it occurred to Rhaella that any lord could only be flattered by attention lavished upon his offspring. Indeed, she ought to strive to capture the man’s heart and mind and what better way was there than through those he held dear.

Pleased with herself, Rhaella continued her meal, finding that her stomach was less irritable with something warm within it. From the corner of her eye she could see that Orsyla was already smiling at one of the men sitting at a lower table while Aranna to Ynnis only the Seven knew what. She longed to scold the three of them but knew that she could not before such a large gathering. Instead, Rhaella turned her attention back to Rickard Stark, noting that he was silently contemplating her.

Far from a blushing maiden, she still felt her skin heat with the flow of blood.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it then. Thank you for reading.
> 
> To those of you who also read The River Runs Cold, would you like it if I left clues for this story as well? Just a thought. Give it some consideration and let me know.
> 
> And, as always, let me know what you've thought of the chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

 

They took him in the middle of the night from his bedchamber. Two strong men, armed to their teeth, had burst into the Lord Hand’s bedchamber as if they had the right to and grabbed him from his warm bed, dragging him through the small corridors to a chamber that would serve as his lodging.

How long he’d been locked away, Sloane did not know. It might have been days. There was nothing passing for light in the chamber but for a small sconce on the wall, leaving him in perpetual semi-darkness, at the mercy of his thoughts.

And think he did. He thought upon all sorts of matters, business unfinished and even plans of revenge.

Edgard Sloane paced the length of the room, hands curled into tight fists. Like a restless beast she shifted to and fro, stopping every now and again to listen to whatever sounds came from without. Somewhere in the distance the clang of metal striking metal rang through the hallways. That ghost of a sound reverberated within the small chamber of his dwelling. Not halting in his pacing, the dour man started to wonder at it.

Why would metal be striking metal? It came not from without, from the training grounds, but from within the keep. Yet it had been distant. Distant enough to not concern him yet close enough to raise suspicions. Damn and blast. Gritting his teeth, the Hand of the king resisted the urge to bang on the door and demand once more that he be freed.

Lannister men guarded the entrance to the narrow space and they would not budge for anything. Not gold, nor positions. Tywin had trained his men well. But it was to Sloane’s sorrow that he had. If he could not bribe his way without, then how was he to know what had happened to the Queen Mother. A soft curse caught in the back of his throat, refusing to be released into the mid-darkness.

His legs had grown tired. Were he a decade younger he might have paced for a few hours longer. As it was, however, the wreck of a body he inhabited shamed him by giving in to weakness. Alack, there was nothing for it but to sit upon the ground and wait for news. Any sort of news. And that was what the man did.

He had known it to be a mistake, calling Tywin Lannister to King’s landing. The Queen Mother had insisted, as payment for the betrothal that had fallen through. Edgard had told her it would have sufficed to send her condolences, but nay, she had wished to show generosity. It was unsurprising that she’d fallen into a trap of her own making. Tywin Lannister was a shrew man. He made no apologies for his deeds and did not hide the fact that he wishes to climb higher and higher still. It chafed to know that a young man had beaten him at the game despite years of experience. The opponent had been underestimated. Never again would the Lord Hand make such a mistake.

That was if ever there was a second chance. There might well not be. The gods only knew what plots ran rife within the Red Keep in his absence. What a failure he was, he had promised His Grace Jaehaerys that he would take care of his daughter and the child-king. Were the man alive, he would have known how to keep the realm in line.

What could a mere boy do? Rhaegar Targaryen was a bright lad. He might have grown to be the best king the realm had ever had. Would that he had. Would that his own lady mother had been more careful in her step. The patience and discipline the mother lack, the boy had aplenty. The dedication his father had not had burned bright inside the young King. Was all of that to perish beneath the cruel blows of greed come from lords that were supposed to be allies?

The only consolation was that he could not be left to rot within these walls for much longer. Tywin would need to decide his fate. And soon for that matter. No doubt word has spread already about his absence. Edgar wanted to be done with the matter one way or another. If he was to escape the hangman’s noose or Slynt’s blade, then he would gather his forces. And unlikely option, to be sure, but one must hope for the best if the desire was not to fall into lunacy.

Thanked be the Father for his justice, Slaone had managed to write home to his lady wife. If he failed to come back to her, she knew what to do. Coin she had and jewellery beside to exchange for more coin if need be. The thought of her living in a far off land, somewhere in Essos, did not sit well with him. Not when Elyn, poor dame, had leaned upon him all her life. To suddenly be left alone in the world, it was almost unthinkable. Yet necessary.

Tywin had his plans and would no doubt wish to rid himself of impediments. Having opposed the lord for much of his tenure, Edgar knew he was among the first upon the list. Accordingly, he had prepared his family for the blow. He had chosen to play the game of thrones knowing fully well what awaited him if he lost.

There had been glory and pain was to come, neither strange to human life. He sat up at a long last, stretching his legs to push the blood into flowing. Eyes gazed upon the door, thinly veiled anticipation upon the wizened face. It would open soon, he felt it in his bones.

As if to confirm his belief from without heavy steps beat a steady pattern, telling of advancement, against the hard floors.

Certain moments in a man’s life were marked by time itself slowing to a halt, disintegrating as if to say that there was no measure to count by, that no value could be placed upon them. Whether it was because these moments were crucial, or whether a random occurrence was at fault, was to be determined by any man on his own. The certainty was the following, in the wake of such, the world was turned on its head and nothing was what it had been.

The door opened swiftly, breaking the spell. A mountain of a man trudged in, followed by Lord Lannister. The young Lion glanced with cruel eyes at his captive. I see you yet live. That is well. A traitor to the realm must be exemplary punished.”

“It is now treason to oppose the likes of you, my lord?” Edgar laughed mirthlessly. “By the Seven, then I am a traitor and I am proud of it. Leeches should be burnt.”

The reply earned him a punch to the stomach. The blow was delivered by the beast of a man Tywin Lannister had brought along. Something within Edgar broke, heat filling his midsection with alarming alacrity. His form could not seem to uncoil itself. Doubled over, the man struggled to look up.

“It is the likes of you that must perish for the realm to prosper. Promoter of a destructive model, you would have us all lose ourselves in the hands of an insane king’s daughter.” The blatant disrespect behind the statement startled the injured man.

“The insane king’s daughter is the sole reason you are here, worm,” he retorted. This time the blow fell upon the back of his neck, knocking him to the ground. He was not allowed to linger upon the cool stone and soothe his ache for the brute picked him up as easy as he would a doll and dragged him to his feet.

“Enough of that. I have come to let you know that by the King’s order you declared a traitor of the realm and hereby stripped of your office as Hand of the King.” The badge he had worn for so long was ripped from his chest. “You are to confess all your crimes and face punishment.”

It had been expected. Edgar laughed. “I shall confess naught to you, Tywin Lannister. I am not guilty of any crime.”

If a man could smile without smiling, then Tywin Lannister had perfected the art of his. All muscles in the man’s face remained motionless, but by the glow in his eyes, he gladdened at the refusal. “Very well then. We shall make you confess.”

The promise snaked along his back, slithering to the painfully pulsing point in his neck. It pinched and burned, dragging the niggling discomfort to higher levels. He clenched his teeth in refusal nonetheless and chose to walk as he was directed, on unsure feet. They were taking him below, he knew even without asking. That was where traitors were kept, that was where information was most forthcoming.

Yet they would have nothing of him. He would not compromise,

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

It was Lord Rickard himself that led her up the steep stairs, one hand holding a torch, the other balancing her. In the warm light she could make out sparse light streaks in her soon-to-be-husband’s hair. They were not many, but at the back of his head, if one looked with attention, they were startling to notice. Certainly he must have been older than her, but Rhaella had not though to ask for an exact number. He was virile and still strong, it ought not to matter whether he was at the end of his third decade of life or the fourth.

The thought remained with her as they continued to climb up the stairs. “This is quite the journey,” she said, if only to hear something. It had grown too quiet.

“The children should not be disturbed by what goes on within the other parts of the keep,” was the father’s reply. At first glace it seemed a considerate answer, stemming from the love and care a man had for his children. Yet what could possibly trouble the small creatures within their own home.

A shiver ran down Rhaella’s back. “I hope we shan’t disturb them then,” she said at a long last. But as those words left her mouth, her own experience came to haunt her. Has she not thought herself safe in her own home? “It would be a pity.”

“I do believe that these two can sleep through anything short of an Ironborn attack," came the offhanded reply, joined by a light chuckle. It was a poorly made jest but Rhaella could not help tittering along, dispelling some of the tension that had stiffened her shoulders. “That is, if they sleep at all.”

Rhaegar sometimes had trouble sleeping. Rhaella hummed softly. “Is it often that they cannot sleep?”

“It is often that they insist upon staying awake and terrorising Nan with their antics.” Despite the gruff manner in which the words had been spoken, an underlying sliver of affection could still be heard. “Just the other day they have pushed the poor woman in a snowbank."

Finally they reached a narrow hallway, its grim stone radiating heat as the rest of the keep did. The nursery where the children had been placed for the evening came alive almost as soon as Rhaella’s foot had reached the last step. A giggle sounded out from behind the door and a shot followed shortly after. It occurred to her that Lord Stark had had it wrong. The keep needed to be kept from disturbances, not the other way around.

A clang rang out and the door burst open releasing a crawling creature. A yelp of concern left Rhaella’s lips when the child hurried on all fours towards the two of them, gaily dragging what looked to be a costly dress upon the dusty ground.

“Lyanna,” a voice called from within the chamber and a heartbeat later an old woman staggered without. “My lord, Your Grace, I had not known you were arrived.”

“Is a man no longer allowed to see his children?” the lord of the keep questioned harshly, bending the knee to scoop his daughter up. The child made a sound in the back of her throat but as soon as her wild mane was brushed back deftly by her father she started chatting a mile, gleeful at the attention paid to her.

“Settle down,” her father spoke softly and curiously enough she listened. Her voice dwindled, coming to a halt and the child remained silent, apparently noticing for the first time that company had arrived. “Come, Lyanna, there is someone I should like you to meet.”

Rhaella glanced at the child, nothing with a pang that her hands were dark as sooth. What had she been doing? An uneasy smile forced its way upon her lips. “You must be little Lyanna,” she said, trying to encourage the child to interact by leaning in a bit closer.

The girl frowned. “I am not little,” she complained loudly, lower lip jutting out, eyes glinting in the light in a much similar fashion as those of her father.

“Now, be civil,” Rickard cut her off. “This is Lady Rhaella of House Targaryen, she is to be your new mother.”

If anything could create a rift between child and step-parent than those were the words. Instinctively the child would shrink. And she did. Rhaella sighed. “My lord, I do believe I shall be fine on my own.” She stepped closer towards Lyanna and Rickard gave her the girl. It must have been the father’s presence that kept the she-wolf from struggling, for when Rhaella took her, she was stiff as iron.

The pristine cloth of her dress was ultimately stained by small fingers and palms pressed into her front for balance. A smidge of annoyance surged through the she-dragon. The girl clearly needed a guiding hand. If what she had witnessed was commonplace, then Lord Stark required a wife quite desperately.

“I believe you have a brother with you, Lyanna,” she began, trying to speak in as calm a manner as possible, “would you be so kind as to make the introductions.”

Still frowning, the child harrumphed in indignation, refusing to speak. Rhaella, not taking that for an answer, strode within the nursery, past the bulk of Nan, presumably the nursemaid of the youngest child. Sure enough, a small boy watched them come in, wide eyes trained upon the two women.

Lyanna was deposited next to her brother and Rhaella knelt before the two of them. “How alike the two of you are,” she murmured, fingers rising to the youngest’s head trailing along the soft, dark hair. “Are you alike in temper as well?” this she asked of Lyanna.

With a grimace, the girl threw her head back and proudly maintained her silence. Rhaella laughed at her antics, thinking that had she been her age and her father widowed, she might have reacted similarly. “I daresay you are not,” she decided after a brief pause, turning back towards the boy.

Senseless sounds left the child’s mouth. No doubt to him it meant something, but Rhaella could only smile and nod, pretending she knew exactly what he meant. “I can see, aye. Your sister could learn a thing or two from you.”

The moody Lyanna pouted, nose scrunching in distaste. “Benjen, stop!” she ordered, voice carrying over her brother’s babbling. Alas, Benjen did not stop. Younger brothers were prone to not listening. “Benjen!”

“There, there,” the former Queen consoled the older sibling. “You needn’t take on so. I want us to get on well, Lady Lyanna.”

“I don’t want a new mother. I have one.” Of course that would be the trouble. Rhaella gave one small nod.

“Aye, then I shall only be your friend.” Reticent, the child remained staring at her, as if unsure what she ought to decide upon. “Surely we can be friends, you and I. And Benjen too.”

“But you won’t be my mother,” Lyanna warned, mien taking on a cast similar to her father’s. “Promise.”

“I promise I shan’t try to act your mother. There, will that do?” Rhaella rose to her feet, picking up Benjen in her arms and pressing her lips against his forehead at the realisation that he carried the scent that clung to babes, the scent of milk. It was a comfort to have a reminder of motherhood that did not hiss at the sight of her.

The child in her arms snuggled happily against her front, pressing his scant weight into hers. A small smile brushed at the corners of her lips, but she held it back. “Now that I have met the both of you, ‘tis time I returned to my own chambers. Shall we see each other in the morning?” The question had been addressed mostly to Lyanna, for it was her trust that she had to earn apparently.

At the girl’s nod, Rhaella passed the babe into Nan’s arms and quietly made her way without. Waiting upon her was Rickard. Why he had not entered she could not fathom. But he looked at her with something akin to appreciation.

“Well, Your Grace, now you have met my children. What do you think?” He offered his arm which she took immediately, the movement a habit.

If she were to be truthful, she would injure his pride. If she were to lie, she would be attacking his intelligence. “I believe there is need of some accommodation time for all of us, my lord.”

“A diplomat as well,” Rickard said in a monotone voice which did not quite lend itself to jesting. Still, there was no sign of insult. Rhaella nodded her head absently, neither an agreement nor a disagreement, but something to do.

They made their way down the spiralling stairs arm in arm. Rhaella doubted she would ever be quite comfortable with their steepness, nor very trusting of the way the sconces lit the path, In a few moon turns she would speak to Rickard about moving the children away from there, somewhere closer and easier to reach. Children needed supervision, not glided cages.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Le clues.:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **1) Oliw Ozmmrhgvi droo yirmt srh xfyh gl gsv Ivw Pvvk hl zh gl ulin z ylmw yvgdvvm gsvn zmw gsv prmt.**
> 
>  
> 
> **2) Xszixlzo nzpvh gsv szmwh tl yozxp.**
> 
>  
> 
> **3) Gilfyov rh xlnrmt. ******


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

 

Orsyla’s smile cut a bright red ribbon against her pale skin, a perfect match to the pinched-red cheeks and slightly mussed hair. “Your Grace, I must confess, I find Winterfell much to my likening.” Very likely it was due to some young buck she’d attached herself to during the evening meal. Orsyla had a talent for finding specimens. She had looked the young one over, content to allow that her lady’s tastes were quite refined. “I believe Your Grace has found it to her liking as well.”

“Your judgement, as always, my friend, is made in haste,” Ynnis cut in, a bold hand making to grab onto Orsyla’s elbow. “Your Grace, we need not tolerate her,” she jested, a subtle nod of the head towards the door, as if to throw their merry companion to the wolves, as it were.

Startled that she yet had it in her to laugh at such naïve jests, Rhaella allowed as somewhat stilted laugh to pass her lips. “It is a far removed form the Red Keep, but ‘tis not in itself something to be bemoaned. I find this keep comfortable.” She could only hope her stay would match this very comfort burrowing its way within. Rhaella adjusted her position as Arrana came behind her, silver comb in hand, and began brushing her silver tresses in sure strokes. “I find it ever good of Lord Stark to have allowed all of you to stay here with me as well.”

If had not been spoken of, to be honest. Rhaella had surmised. by the fact that the lord himself paid little mind to her women, that she’d be allowed to keep all three of them. When any one woman became wife to a lord, usual custom allowed her companions from within her own lord’s borders, It was unusual to find such company among those of other kingdoms. Nonetheless, it was to be hope the man would not change his mind.

Acting the valiant protector in her usual manner, Orsyla stood to her feet and shook out the lint from the folds of her nightgown. “Were any man to attempt to part us, Your Grace, he would face my wrath.” From a stool she picked up her weapon of choice, and continued, “and that of my trusty bodkin.”

“I suppose ‘tis better a needle than a shoe,” Arrana laughed, joined by the others, even as her clever fingers twisted Rhaella’s hair in thick coils. “Your Grace, we ought to be heaping many favours onto this brave protector of ours.”

Rhaella calmed herself enough to thank Orsyla for the offer with a half-smile added for effect and barely managed to catch herself before yawning. Tiring though the journey had been, she’d not thought it had depleted so much of her energy. “I do believe there has been enough excitement for one day. Come alone, I grow weary.” And somewhat ill at ease, as well. But the Queen Mother was soon hidden beneath the heavy pelts of wolves, on each of her sides one of her women was mounting a defence of pillows for the veritable fort they’d built, a pretty sight, to be sure, heart-warmingly so in the face of change.

As she laid her head down upon a soft, feather-filled pillow, Rhaella conjured the image of her son, leagues away in a bed all of his own, guarded by his Kingsguards to no effect. Chainmail and sharp-edged swords rarely lent themselves to the subtlety of politics and the gods knew that none of those brave men, much as their warring skills were appreciated, had it in them to be great statesmen. A sense of sadness stole over her, snaking down with the wicked slide of a curse. The trite, monotone feeling of dread settled comfortably within her chest. But Rhaella pushed away at it, driving it into a corner. To worry for the fate of her son was to give up on his chances. She had raised a clever boy.

Turning on her side, the woman spied Arrana blowing out the last of the burning candles before sliding into bed alongside Orsyla. Her slim hand hugged the latter’s waist for warmth and comfort presumably. Rhaella felt the sharp knuckles pointedly pressing into her own side as Ynnis pushed herself even closer than before.

In the days of her girlhood, before Aerys had been given access to her bed, she had shared it with various companions her mother had found for her. Since birthing Rhaegar, however, she had preferred her own company or that of her son to these presences. In the dark night of the North, she found that to share a bedchamber with familiar faces was not that much of a hardship. Not in that contentment was to be found, but in that she needn’t fear the unknown just yet. There was still time to go until that point.

Her own thoughts echoing through her head kept Rhaella in the realm of the wakeful ones for yet some time, the stream of soft murmurs flowing at a steady pace, mingling words and memories with sentiments, the amalgam an amorphous mass swelling to the point of bursting before regressing and fading ever so slowly through the tenebrous depths of consciousness into awaiting oblivion. There remained nothing but the sound of silence and the relative peace of the unknowing. It was to that that Rhaella found sleep coming, the sweet drift stealing her away.

Willingly, the woman allowed herself to be carried away, all senses shutting down, dormant until they were needed once more. Rhaella moved not an inch as the Stranger’s hand passed over her, offering a taste of what waited beyond her years in the realm of the living. In the face of absent danger brave, the Queen Mother set foot upon the path making itself known to her, giving her all to the universe she had built within her own mind as the hours of the night drifted steady on, time wearing thin at the edges, fraying with every lap of the wave at the shore of existence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elyn Sloane’s stout figure trotted comically along the cobblestoned path. The heavy skirts swirled around her thick legs, poorly worked wool scratching the soft skin, chafing along her flesh, its red kiss a reminder of her good man’s demise. Lorra followed her lady mother with a measured step, her leaner figure attracting less attention by the swaying of her walk. “Come along, girl. Hurry.” The older woman’s insistence was met with a furious snort from the girl mentioned. Without protesting the response, the mother simply grabbed at her child’s hand and pulled her with great force forth.

Stumbling on a raising stone, Lorra fell to her knees with a loud shriek of surprise. Her cry of pain failed to gain the sympathy of passers-by who merely continued on their way as if nothing had happened. For in truth it had not. Lorra climbed to her feet with shaky, jerky movements and set to her own pace once more. The smarting wound on her knee oozed droplets of blood, the warm fluid sliding against her skin. The pain, inconsequential to the mind of a woman who had just lost her father, remained something to be overlooked and mocked as trifling in the face of the atrocities her parent no longer sufferance even as she thought her thoughts at the hands of cruel torturers in their great capitol.

And all that for having served a Queen of weak mind. Lorra had not stepped foot into court for very long before she’d understood how matters stood. And she was no fool to be won over by one smile and a decorous compliment. Rhaella Targaryen had stolen the man she’d loved best in the world and threw him to the merciless, jagged teeth of hungering beasts. Blood boiled hot at the very thought, the maiden holding back her tears for fear of prying eyes.

No doubt Tywin Lannister searched for them as well, having figured out that they’d run off to search for a safe harbour. The man was unstoppable. The realm feared the Lion for good reason, the Reynes of Castamere a song well played by the bards of the kingdoms to the glory and terror of the golden Lions of Catserly Rock. How could one not tremble hearing that not even a brick was left behind the attack? Lorra dared a look over her shoulder, a sound registering in her ears.

A small boy had tumbled out a arrow door, falling flat on his face in the street. An ill-dressed woman shouted something at him which the maiden could not catch, but as the light haired child rose to his feet she was struck by one detail.

“Mother, stop,” she called out suddenly to the stout woman before her, coming to a halt.

“What is it?” the exasperated voice of Elyn Sloane hissed. Lorra pointed one finger at the boy dusting himself off, the bow of his pouting lips perfectly arched. “By the Seven,” the mother gasped.

Were the boy a few years older, his height boosted, he would have been the spitting image of the boy-king sitting the throne.

The plan was fairly quick to form, or rather the desire in itself. Without asking her mother’s permission, Lorra stepped towards the child wiping his face and took out a thin, embroidered kerchief. She heard the protests of her parent but paid them no heed as she held the object towards the child. “That was quite the fall you took,” she spoke softly as to not startle him.

Despite her very best attempt, the boy jumped up at the sound of her voice, dark eyes drifting towards her with unequalled savage suspicion. Long, sooty lashes blinked, confusion bleeding through as his eyes landed on what she offered. “For your face,” Lorra clarified.

The boy remained staring at her despite the insistence with which she pressed her offering towards him. In the end, Lorra thought to wipe him clean herself but before she or her kerchief could reach anywhere near her face, the child pulled backwards so fast he nearly lost his footing. The lack of attention on his part allowed the older girl to grab him by the rams. “Steady now. I was merely wondering where your mother is.”

At that, he looked up with such intensity that whatever Lorra had wanted to say further was lost. “Dead.” The answer lodged itself in her brain as the child shook off her hold. No doubt he had nowhere to go, given the conditions he found himself in.

It was more than perfect.

“Are you hungry?” By the looks of him it seemed to her that he’d not had a good meal for quite a bit.

Before an answer was given her mother cut in. “Lorra, by the Seven, what are you doing? Let the wretch go and let us be on our way.” The unmistakable fear in the woman’s voice should have moved her daughter. Unfaltering, Lorra insisted to take the dirty hand of the rough-looking child in protest of her mother’s words.

She might have further said something but, seeing as two mounted men approached, her heart squeezed painfully. They were speaking to one another and not looking ahead. Yet her heart trembled.

Reacting as if he’d been stung by something, the child tugged on her hand just as the first of the two men looked over. Whatever description these Lannister men had been given, they recognised Lorr and her mother immediately.

Lady Elyn, in a feat of courage, placed her thick frame before Lorra with a hurried command that she should leave, throwing her a small pouch. As if the words had been spoken to him, the boy whose hand Lorra still held leaped into action, pulling her into a side alley and down n even smaller path along the dirt road as the sound of hooves beating against the ground became fainter and fainter.

The child changed their course for another path yet again as Lorra’s head whipped desperately over her shoulder, even though her mind already knew the fate of her lady mother.

A small entrance took shape before her as the child led her into what she recognised to be the old tunnels of a no longer in use inn. Her feet walked without her own command, survival instinct having taken over even the wish of returning to save the woman who had given her birth.

The dreadful truth became clearer and clearer with every further step. It had been Lorra herself that had condemned them. She ought to have kept walking. Head facing forth, she halted her own steps abruptly. The boy holding her hand was pulled backwards by her sudden stop, this time landing on the ground as she did not bother to catch him.

Unbidden, tears started pouring down her cheeks like blood gushing from an open wound. “We have to keep going,” she heard the boy say. “I’ll leave without you,” came the warning when she did not move. Lorra remained stone still even so, wanting to tell him to go but unable to form the words.

As if hearing the unspoken plea, the child grabbed hold of her hand and tugged, “I lost my mother too. They never come back. We have to go.”

For some reason those very words had a waking effect upon her. Lorra gazed down at the by. “I need a ship.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaegar hid a grimace as best he could when the mutilated body of his former Lord Hand was brought before him. Edgar Sloane had been his mother’s Hand in truth, for Rhaella had ruled. To see him in such a state was painful and the obvious desire to shame the man was clear even to the mind of a child. Rhaegar gazed down upon the man, his barely recognisable face bloodied and battered.

“The criminal wishes to confess to Your Majesty,” Lord Tywin said from his place at the foot of the throne. “Would you attend his confession?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to deny any manner of involvement. But he could not. If there was anything a King could do, then speaking was it. If Sloane gave him even the faintest of traces of regret, he could use it well to his advantage.

“Let him speak then,” the King ordered, his court falling silent.

Sloane, who had been forced to his knees, was held up between two guards, their burly arms acting to keep his from falling. As the man began speaking, the young King could not keep his eyes away from the chipped teeth. Words came out slurred and strange-sounding, but he heard enough to know what the man confessed to. Sloane continued to talk until a hitch of the breath stole away every word and a dam broke, flooding the great hall with wails. They came from the very man who had fallen back to his knees begging for forgiveness.

With the soft-hearted tenderness learnt at his mother’s breast, Rhaegar, before being able to stop himself, left his position upon the throne, bounding down the stairs towards where the pitiful sight of a good man stood testimony to the greed and cruelty of the world. His hands reached out to touch the so called criminal, but he was stopped at a mere nod of his Lord Hand.

“Your Majesty, the man is a criminal,” Tywin reminded him softly, in a manner that suggested he had the King’s best concerns at heart.

Not fooled for a moment’s worth, Rhaegar straightened himself and took a step backwards. “A criminal indeed,” he acknowledged. “This criminal, however, has long served the crown. I would not have it said that the King knows no gratitude. Heinous though his acts may be, his contribution to the reign of my grandfather is not to be forgotten.”

“Your Majesty wishes to show lenience?” The Lord Hand’s question jarred the Rhaegar. Its note of disapproval was not missed.

“I wish him sent to the Wall.” Men had lost their lives for less than the crimes placed upon Edgar Sloane’s shoulder, however did not think he would be refused.

“If it be the wish of Your Majesty.” Once spoken such words could not be taken back. Rhaegar gave a nod of the head in the general direction of his lord Hand and turned his back on the man being picked up of the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaella woke to a cheerful thrill, to waves of light spilling within her bedchamber and emptiness all about her. Confused at the lack of ladies-in-waiting waiting upon her, the woman made to sit up only to realise her hand had caught onto the thick furs worn for warmth. Disentangling herself the prison, she fought off the persistent hold, and freed herself to a somewhat cool interior.

Just as she searched the ground for her footwear, the door opened with a creak. Ynnis’ face poked inside. “Your Grace, you are finally awake. We feared you would sleep the day away.” Comfortable as could be the young woman made her way within, followed by Arrana who was carrying a tray. Orsyla came last, a smile upon her face, in a manner that spoke of great findings.

But she was told very little as her women flocked about her with the dishes and cups, encouraging her to have a bite or two. “’Tis not as bad as we expected, this Northerner food. I found the honeyed porridge quite palatable.”

Taking a spoonful of still-hot porridge, Rhaella had to admit that beyond the scalding effect, it was quite good tasting. She held a hand out for her wine, which Orsyla passed over with great care. “The next time, warn me, won’t you.” She made the demand of Arrana who, to her credit, had the grace to blush.

“Apologies, Your Grace, it quite slipped my mind.” The harm forgotten within moments, Rhaella was plied with even more food and drink until she refused another bite, pushing away at her unfinished meal in much the manner of a small child.

Her women set about finding an appropriate garment for the day, searching her trunks with diligence. They fussed over her hair, combing and pinning thick strands to the back so they might not be blown over by the somewhat rough wind of the day. All in all, ‘twas as if she’d never left King’s Landing.

“Are the children awake?” she asked of Ynnis who was dabbing scented oils upon her throat.

Nodding her head, the lady assured her mistress that the children were more than awake. “That girl is a hellion,” Ynnis shuddered, no doubt having experienced the warmth of Lyanna Stark.

“Then take the time to tame her,” Rhaella offered calmly, standing to her feet once she’d been made ready. “No task is unaccomplishable. There is four of us, after all. Once she is used to it, she shall come around.”

“If ever she is used to it,” Ynnis muttered underneath her breath, earning herself a long look from the Queen Mother.

“I believe we have dallied enough.” Rhaella was the first to step into the hallway where, to her astonishment, the very hellion her companions had spoken about waited, propping herself against a wall.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the child greeted, slouching something fearful. The unhappy tone named the culprit of this scheme to be her father.

“Good morning, Lyanna,” Rhaella returned with a smile. “I trust you have slept well and are ready for a day filled with adventure.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I have decided to further oppress everyone and take up every bit of space possible as it occurred to me I've not updated in some time. Hope you've enjoyed this little bit of text here. I'll leave the clues down below:**
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> **1) Gsviv rh ml hfxs gsrmt zh xlrmxrwvmxvh, izgsvi, gsviv rh z gsrmt xzoovw kozmmrmt. Uzgv wlvh rg zoo gsv grnv.**
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> **2) Gsv hvz xzm yv ylgs z tivzg vmvnb zmw zm zoob. Rg zoo wvkvmwh lm dsvgsvi blf urmw blfihvou lm gsv drmmrmt hrwv li lm gsv olhrmt lmv.**
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> **3) Gsviv rh hlnvgsrmt gl yv hzrw zylfg uligfmv sviv.**


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